


The Golden One

by almostbecamehistoric (capgal)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:48:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capgal/pseuds/almostbecamehistoric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the death of the golden one, the eternal survival of The Golden One is ensured.<br/>Slight AU: Enjolras is captured at the barricade, instead of being shot there. Twoshot with brief epilogue. Mostly Enjolras POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based rather heavily on headcanon--but all you should need to know is that was born to a rich family by the name of de Reaume, left home at the age of 18 and has never talked to his family since.  
> As always, unbeta-ed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trial and sentencing of a certain blond revolutionary.

_Aurélien de Reaume._

I detest the name. The foolish name my parents gave me— _the golden one_ —that I’ve hated for as long as I can remember. The aristocratic, pompous last name I swore never again to use when I came to Paris four years ago. The name has nothing to do with who I am anymore; Aurélien de Reaume has long ceased to exist as far as I am concerned. But that is the name they call at the farce of a trial.

In a way, I am glad. Aurélien de Reaume, a relic of the old, broken social order, will die on the scaffold. Enjolras, the marble lover of liberty, the golden leader of the revolution, will live on. They cannot kill Enjolras, not once they’ve killed Aurélien. It gives me a bitter satisfaction, knowing that in executing me they will immortalize me.

The trial, as expected, cannot be anything but a farce when everybody already knows what the results would be. They drag me in anyway, hands bound behind my back, and shove me into a chair. A barrage of cold, contemptuous glares greet me; I meet their eyes calmly. I do not say anything as they pour accusation upon accusation over me. It will not make a difference, and I refuse to grant them the satisfaction of hearing me argue for my life. I do, however, hold my head high, keep my back straight, let my eyes shine with anger and contempt. _You cannot break me,_ I tell them, _you can only kill me._ Not that death holds any horror for me. I know I am damned to eternal torment—how could I not be, after all the men I failed and all the death I caused—but I have known that since the first day. There is nothing left here to hold me; all my brothers are dead, the Revolution failed, and Patria has abandoned me.

The sentence does not surprise anyone: _Aurélien de Reaume is sentenced to the guillotine on the morning of July 12th._ I do not say a word. I do not let fear, or shock, or any emotion, cross my face; there is little I feel other than resignation, anyway. I do not resist as they seize me by the arm and throw me back into the cell. Two weeks left to live. My only regret is that I will not be able to see the anniversary of the Revolution again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of Enjolras' execution. Enjolras POV once more. Non-graphic, more internally focused.

They come early that morning; it can hardly be dawn when heavy footfalls ring through jailhouse. Three figures walk down the narrow hallway between the cold metal bars. The guard opens the door and lets them in. A priest, a barber, and a court official.

I greet them with polite but curt nods. The official scowls at me and reaches into his pocket to pull out a piece of paper. “Are you Aurélien de Reaume?”

 _Non. My name is Enjolras, and I represent the Revolution._  
“Oui.”

“You are sentenced to death by guillotine this morning.”

 _Is there a question in there, Monsieur?_  
“Oui.”

“Do you wish to speak with a priest and make your last confession?

 _I have done no wrong, only tried to liberate the people you oppress. I have nothing to confess._  
“Non.”

“Very well.”

The priest steps out, though not before casting me a sad glance. I try to reassure him, thank him with my eyes. He does not deserve the guilt of my death. He is not the guilty one. It is me, and it is them. But not him.

The barber steps forward in the priest’s place. In his hand gleams an ominous razor. Without a word of warning, he seizes me roughly by my hair. Pain shoots down from my scalp, but I clench my teeth and show no sign of it. He carelessly hacks away at the collar of my shirt, then at the hair behind my neck; I feel his razor nick me more than once. Soon, there is a large, roughly-formed blank patch behind my neck, leaving the skin and muscle and bones exposed. They then throw a rope around my neck, and force me to my feet. I am dragged out of the cell, and into the open; the ropes around my leg make it difficult for me to do anything but stumble, but I lift my chin, straighten my posture, and let no sign of discomfort on my face.

The ride through the city is just as much of a farce as the trial. The angry jeers of the royalists assault me, but I choose to ignore them.

_You will see. The people will rise, and you will pay._

Sometimes, I catch the glimpse of a pitying face in the crowd. I ignore them too; there is nothing they can do for me, no reason for me to pay them heed.

_I do not need your pity. You are the oppressed. Save your pity for yourselves and for each other._

Eventually we reach the square where I am to be executed. The scaffold rises several feet above the ground—a twisted platform, I suppose. At its peak looms la Guillotine, proud and tall in all her terrible glory. The cold blade shines in the morning light. There is already a large crowd gathered, watching me with fascinated eyes—cold eyes that will watch without a flinch as life leave mine.

They grip me hard by my arm and lift me out of the cart. A soldier pushes me forward with a hard jab in the back from the butt of his rifle. Slowly, I walk—or rather, shuffle, since the rope around my ankles hardly allows me to step properly—towards the scaffold.

I can feel him leave me. Enjolras. I am on the first of the few steps up to the scaffold, when he slips away silently. His steps are firm with purpose; his poster is straight with pride; his eyes are burning with fire; his expression is laden with both the burden and the dreams of Revolution. I watch him as he walks away; I know he is heading back to the Musain, back to the barricade. He does not give me a single backward glance; it is as it should be. The leader of the Revolution, Patria’s greatest servant, has no time to spare for a royalist’s condemned son.

He is gone; suddenly it is as if he never existed. Now I am, again, simply Aurèlien de Reaume. And with Enjolras’ departure, fear returns to me. I do not have his courage, his strength, his dedication. My feet falter on the steps. I bite the inside of my lower lip, drawing blood, and force myself to take the step. And one more. And another. Soon I am at the foot of the guillotine, her blade looming over me.

The executioner removes the rope around my neck and tosses it aside. He pushes me down until I am kneeling. Perhaps it is better to say that I fell into a kneeling position rather than choosing it; the ropes, still tied around my legs and ankles, make it difficult to maneuver. The blade is pulled up. Despite my best efforts, I close my eyes tightly. My heart pounds, fast and hard, as if to make up for all the beats it will miss in a few short seconds.

_You are free._

The voice stops my trembling. Enjolras. A sudden thought rises through my frantic mind. Perhaps, without Enjorlas, I am also free of his sins. Perhaps, in leaving him behind, I am no longer damned. The sudden hope that rushes in my heart allows me to last the final few seconds.

The blade rushes down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case there was any confusion, the words in italics are Enjolras' thoughts in his head.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue of sorts. Short chapter, omniscient POV.

The court records show that Aurélien de Reaume, born 22nd of April, 1810, died by the guillotine on the morning of July 12th, 1832. Not once, in any record, is there a mention of Enjolras—the golden-haired, blue-eyed Apollo, the glorious leader of the revolution. Yet that is the name that is whispered in the streets. That is the name they honour, when at last the freedom he dreamed of comes to France.

But Enjolras never existed, so Enjolras never hears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated adding in this chapter, but decided to keep the angst and pain factor at max. Let me know how you liked this fic, and thank you for reading it!


End file.
